


Reviled & Revealed

by Dxmjunkie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-17
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dxmjunkie/pseuds/Dxmjunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Seriously, Sherlock?"  John demanded. "I get home from the clinic after a ten hour day, wanting nothing more than a cuppa and maybe some quality time with my novel, and you proceed to ask me some inane rhetorical question about the military, then drag me to a bar with a bunch of steroid-abusing Nazi’s. No explanation, just, you know. Nazi’s.”</p><p>The trope above all other trope. Sherlock & John, stuck in a cabin with only a blanket. Minor Dub-Con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Touch Which is Reviled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been partially translated into Russian. Read here: http://ficbook.net/readfic/2258053

“One day,” Sherlock remarked, “You will look back at this moment and find yourself dead chuffed instead of irritated.”

John snorted caustically, lolling his head. The back of his skull bumped against his flatmates, a gesture of admonishment.

The pair were trapped back-to-back on folding metal chairs, arms awkwardly wrenched behind them with a thick rope assuring their immobility. The room they’d found themselves in was more of a storage space, really, four faded brick walls with a concrete floor. The light overhead dangled with bare wire exposed, the door was without window and a drain near John’s right foot was the only additional feature. They'd been like that for over eight hours.

“Oh, yes,” The doctor agreed wryly. “Very first thing I’ll feel when remembering tonight. Dead. Chuffed.”

“Sarcasm is really the lowest form of wit,” Sherlock quipped without malice.

John knew the consulting detective was exhausted but stubbornly acting as if he wasn't. It was a pride thing, for Sherlock.

John shivered involuntarily and tucked his chin to his chest.

“Imagine that,” he bit through clenched teeth. “I don't find being tied-up, shirtless mind you, by Neo-Nazi’s on a Thursday night, as my idea of an amusing time.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He'd been working at the binds for the last twenty minutes but to no avail. Itchy rope was already chafing John’s wrists raw. His flesh was covered in goose-pimples, but at least the damn skinheads had left them their pants and trousers. Being utterly starkers was not high on John’s priorities whilst being kidnapped. It reminded him too much of Afghanistan. All that power play.

Sherlock glared petulantly down at his bare feet, marble skin distinct against the matted gray of chipped concrete. The pair lapsed into silence as Sherlock renewed his efforts on their tight bonds.

“As I recall you suggested we surrender.” Sherlock finally muttered, voice only audible because of the echo in the empty room.

John bristled with indignation.

“Do you ever actually listen to yourself talk? Seriously? I get home from the clinic after a ten hour day, wanting nothing more than a cuppa and maybe some quality time with my novel. You proceed to ask me some inane rhetorical question about the military, then drag me out to a bar with a bunch of steroid-abusing Nazi’s. No explanation, just, you know. Nazi’s.”

“Really, John-“

“ _Then_ ,” John interrupted seamlessly, his voice growing louder as he steamrolled onwards. “Then you taunt a group of armed Nazi’s by asking if they were born in a beaker. You tell them they certainly would benefit from more simplistic DNA, such as those of laboratory grown mould samples, since they are obviously the victim of severe genetic abnormalities and retardation!”

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

“Which, by the way,” John scolded, “Next time pick an insult closer to their intellect, they wouldn’t have understood you if not for your snotty posh tone. Ahem. So, then we get shoved in a van, knocked unconscious, drugged, kidnapped, robbed, stripped of all but our trousers and you tell me I’M the one who suggested we surrender.”

“Well-“

“Shut it, Sherlock.”

Silence reigned for another few moments.

“They probably would have been better off if they’d been grown in a beaker.”

The ex-soldier let out an unintentional huff of laughter.

“See?” Sherlock replied. “It is a little amusing.”

“You missed my point completely.”

The door to their makeshift cell creaked open. The bloke who meandered in was at least six-foot-three, fifteen stone, far more muscle than brain and very much armed and dangerous. His white bald head, meticulously polished, shone under the light. Beefy arms were covered in thick tattoos. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he took in their details. Several gang-signs, white-supremacist slogans, markers of criminal achievement; these were prison tattoos. So, felon, mid-thirties, obvious sexual consent kink. His razor-sharp observations caught the tell-tale signs of recent drug use, narcotics, no, more likely hallucinogens; the track marks, savagely bit fingernails, slight shake to his hand as he held a gun aloft at Sherlock’s forehead. His eyes, slightly glazed, he was high.

Sherlock suddenly had the sickening feeling that these skinheads got off on rape. He gulped, the action unnoticed by the idiot holding the gun.

“Oi then, my boss wants’ter see ‘ou.” The oaf grunted with a grin. “So, here’s how ‘ere gonna do it: ‘Ou give me any ‘o funny business an’ yo brains’ll be a nice addition to that there wall.”

The thug took a thick segregated knife from his boot to cut Sherlock free from his folding chair with one hand. Sherlock could feel that the blade came dangerously close to slashing the tender skin of John’s wrist wide open, but he managed to elbow his friend sharply in the back and force him out of harms way. The doctor gave out a yelp of alarm, not knowing what happened.

Sherlock glared up at the man defiantly, “Watch where you wave that thing, you imbecile!”

Mr. Beef-cakes didn’t appreciate the snark. Before Sherlock could even attempt to defend himself the man backhanded him aggressively across the chin with the butt of his gun. The consulting detective helplessly crashed to the floor by John’s feet, his body instinctively curling into the fetal position while his arms shielded his head.

The Nazi took hold of Sherlock’s dark hair and tugged him, earning a cry of dismay from John as he was dragged from the room. The door soon slammed shut behind him. John’s heart thrummed in his chest as he counted down from ten in his head, and pulled his now-free arms in front of him. John rubbed at his tender swollen wrists. Thanks to Sherlock’s quick thinking, the thug accidentally cut a portion of John’s own bonds. It was something he would have noticed once Sherlock stood, so the detective used the insult to deflect his attention. What an brilliant man, John thought fondly as he rubbed warmth over his bare feet. What a clever man and what an astonishing lack of self-preservation.

John cracked the door open. The idiots hadn't even thought to lock it. A greasy-looking thug was keeping watch around the corner, he could hear Sherlock’s muffled cries echoing down the hallway. The former soldier paused, considering his options. Disable the first guy, steal his shirt and weapon, take it from there. Right. Great plan.

He snuck up behind the thug, slowly, cautiously, then pinned both thumbs and index fingers on either sides of the thick neck and pushed down until his airway was completely blocked. The man flailed uselessly, his face flushing red before his eyes rolled back and he went limp. After lowering the unconscious body silently to the ground and checking his pulse, John pulled the thin-white t-shirt off and shrugged it onto his own body. It smelled rank, but beggars can’t be choosers. He felt around the mans pockets, pulling a knife and cell phone out. He silenced the device just in case.

Taking a gulp of air, John gave a compulsory check to the ammo in the gun, cocked back the safety, and went hunting for his flatmate.

They’d taken Sherlock to a large room. He'd been forced him on his knees, prostrate, in front of what seemed to be the leader who wore a tight motorbike jacket. Sherlock looked smaller without his shirt on in front of this towering Nazi, sharp shoulder blades, slender with lean limbs. His light skin appeared ethereal in the fluorescent lights. Sherlock met the leader's gaze and quirked a corner of his lip, almost mocking him.

The dozen lackeys surrounding him were bald and sporting a similar wardrobe of leather, jeans and badly-designed tattoos. Large red swastika flags adorned three of the walls, a tribute to Hitler on the forth. No windows, so it must be a basement. Or a storage building, not a warehouse but something similar.

John kept to the shadows. The leader began boasting that he'd captured the great Sherlock Holmes, oh he was the top shite, wasn't he. John snorted inwardly as the speech left much to be desired considering the circumstances. They'd pretty much offered themselves to the Nazi’s to be kidnapped when Sherlock made the brilliant decision to stride into their den without backup. The bloke hadn’t done much outside of knock them out, really.

But then the situation became sickeningly serious.

The head-Nazi unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his member beside Sherlock’s face, slapping the detective with his genitals. The Nazi gave a sick smile and commanded him to suck as the others cat-called. John’s whole body tensed as he watched Sherlock’s expression morph to his darkest and fiercest glower. It clearly was unspoken. He’d rather be shot than submit. The Nazi motioned for one of his lackeys to hand over a gun, which he pressed to Sherlock’s sharp cheekbone as he repeated the order. Sherlock’s mouth was forced open by two other guys, John could hear him choking.

John’s gaze darted away. He focused on his surroundings; a long hallway leading off into darkness in the shape of a lower-case t. Large crates lined one side of the corridor, the nearest was partially exposed with splintered wood. John pulled out a canister, it was petrol used for a type of racing motorbike. Perfect. Holding his breath, John shimmied down the hallway like a shadow, bare toes tapping on the concrete. He placed the can on top of a far container, making sure the shine of metal would be visible from a distance.

He returned to his original hiding spot, and caught sight of the leader clutching his disgusting fingers into Sherlock’s hair, tilting the genius’s head back to force his dick deeper down his throat. Sherlock's labored breathing and the thugs mocking laughter echoed across the walls.

John forced down an animalistic growl. This fierce feeling of protectiveness made every nerve ending in his body spark. With a steady hand he ducked around the shelf and took aim. He hit the petrol with dead-accuracy, the canister detonating like a bomb with an overwhelming burst of noise. Nazi lackeys darted past his hiding spot in a panic, shouting obscenities at one another as smoke filled the room and made it hard to breathe. John brought his shirt to his mouth and nose, forcing himself to take shallow silent inhalations.

Only two thugs remained beside Sherlock now, one of which was the leader. The boss was barking orders at the other, his grip on Sherlock’s hair firm and unforgiving. He didn’t appear so scary to the ex-soldier, however, what with his bollocks hanging free. And, oh, that Nazi was going to receive due retribution. _How dare that filthy fuck touch Sherlock Holmes_.

Feeling oddly calm despite the circumstances, John waited for an opening. It came moments later, the leader pulled the gun away from Sherlock's temple and waved it around the room furiously. John took aim and for the second time that evening, his shot rang true.

The Nazi fell to the ground instantly, dead, the bullet neatly placed between his eyes. The remaining lackey jumped with startled curses, but John was quicker.

“Drop your weapons or I'll shoot you in your bollocks,” He informed the man with a dangerously steady purr. “Up against the wall, now, _ta_.”

The skinhead glanced fervently down at the dead body of their leader and complied hastily. John took no time to stride forward and knock him unconscious, perhaps a bit more violent than was absolutely necessary. Adrenaline was pounding through his veins and his heart was damn near in his throat. He truly couldn't be held accountable for his actions in that very instant, could he?

He spun round, scanned the exits, then rushed over to his best friend.

Sherlock was spitting on the ground, his eyes watering as he coughed and swiped at his lips in disgust.

After a moments hesitation, John cupped his hand to the back of Sherlock’s slender neck and let his chin drop to the top of the detective’s head in a protective crouch. Sherlock brought his left hand up to wrap his arm around John’s, squeezing his wrist tightly. They clung to one another for almost half a minute, hearts pounding with the same rhythm of relief. John watched for threats while Sherlock’s deductive attention never left the corpse of the dead Nazi.

“Ready?” John inquired softly.

“Yes,” Sherlock rasped. “Let’s go.”

John pulled away gently. He unwittingly swiped his thumb across Sherlock’s cheekbone before he stood, the action an unspoken comfort. John tugged the t-shirt off the unconscious lackey and handed the detective a functional weapon. Sherlock filched the leader's wallet effortlessly with an unreadable expression.

Fucking racist filth of the earth, thought John, remembering those righteous Americans in that Quentin Tarantino film.

Then, as if in a synchronization, they strode off together to find the way out. Or maybe learn where the hell they were to begin with, that was always a good start. It appeared the explosion scared most of the criminals off the immediate vicinity but John wanted them far, far away from the room with the dead leader as soon as humanly possible. As a soldier, he knew for certain: once the thugs discovered that their leader was dead, they would either scatter with the piss scared out of them or regroup in a testosterone-fueled vengeful wrath. John didn’t want to around for the latter.

Remind him never to offer Sherlock rhetorical advice when asking about military questions on the odd Thursday. For future cases, the doctor made a mental note, always ask Sherlock where they are going, if Nazi’s were likely to be involved, and if Lestrade or even the wholesome Mycroft ought to maybe get a heads up in advance.

They didn’t encounter anyone and after a half-hour of wandering cautiously about they finally located an exit. It was cleverly hidden behind a stack of cardboard piled against a corner, but Sherlock’s sharp eyes noticed the draft and he swiftly deduced its location. Together they forced the door open. John finally thought to check the phone he'd stolen. Dead. Just splendid. He belatedly wished he’d had the forethought to swipe one of the blokes shoes from earlier.

The wind was biting cold when they emerged outside. The sky pitch-black, no stars, and they appeared to be in the woods. Or at least a wooded area, that's as much as John could tell. The wind howling was the only noise they could hear. The door was tucked alongside a fold of rock, the cliff face rising behind them till the darkness obscured it. Sherlock scanned upwards, knowing for certain that they had to be very far removed from London since light pollution wasn’t visible in the cloudy sky.

“How far away did they take us?” John’s voice was a pitch higher with alarm.

Sherlock gave no reply, instead curling his arms uselessly around his body as he took in the surroundings. He shivered, his whole body repelled by the lingering taste in his mouth. He sincerely wanted nothing more than to wash his throat with hydrogen peroxide. Burn it clean.

“We need to find shelter of some sort,” John noted absently.

Sherlock remained stoic and silent, shifting closer to his friend instead. John complied, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock’s bare skin to create friction. They might as well have been shirtless for all the cover the thin t-shirts were providing.

“So we go back? Take our chances?” John pointed to the door they’d just exited.

Sherlock shook his head in negation, “No, too risky.”

John wisely did not try to refute his flatmates logic. His eyes were adjusting to the dark enough that he could properly see the trees. He peered at them, hummed and began hauling Sherlock off into the woods.

“What? John-“

“The leaves are always denser on the side of a tree which gets the most light, the northern side.” John calmly informed him. “If we follow north in one direction, we’re bound to end up somewhere.”

“Great plan,” Sherlock drawled, trying to insert some usual arrogance into his tone. It backfired when he shivered again, his entire torso shaking. John twined both of his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, pulling their chests closer. The detective moved alongside John like a doll with strings cut, his nose very nearly nuzzling the doctors neck.

They slowly made their way through the thick forest. It was painful, they couldn’t see where they were walking, their feet were scratched to hell and both were abysmally cold. Each minute dragged on for a small eternity, both too haggard to attempt any meaningful form of conversation. Finally, a sliver a moonlight filed past the clouds, a miracle.

“Bloody hell, it’s a hunters shack!” John breathed, he really wasn’t sure how much longer either he or Sherlock could have gone. He tried not to think about it.

Sherlock was nearly collapsing against his friend as he murmured, "I feel dizzy."

John hunched Sherlock's body down against the trunk of a great tree, "Wait here for just a moment."

The shack was meant for those hunting turkeys, duck, wildfowl or deer. Probably near a stream of some sort. The rusted lock only took a minute for John to break with the knife. Inside was pitch black, so John kept the door cracked as he fumbled around, the whole thing was about the size of a miniscule bathroom. He located a small box of matches after bumping his head a few moment later, before noticing a lantern beside it. Damn good luck, that was.

Our dear doctor had never been one for hunting animals as sport, you see, but he was incredibly thankful that some people did so at that moment. This small shack was astonishingly well-made. A rich blokes hobby.

The window meant for the gun was bolted shutter when it wasn't being used, it made sure any light wouldn't be visible outside. John lit the lamp after huffing at his frozen fingers. Three itchy wool blankets lay on the floor, probably to sit on, but John could case less. He went back to retrieve Sherlock and man-handled him into a pile on the floor, hurriedly covering his bare arms and feet with the thick blankets.

Sherlock continued to shake violently. John closed the door, and bolded it from the inside.

He then grabbed the second blanket, shoving his whole body into Sherlock's immediate space. John wasn't sure if he'd ever touched his friend so much before, at least at one time. Stitches were one thing, fingers meticulously steady during a medical procedure.

But right now they were fit seamlessly in a line, limbs so tangled as they huddled closer, every inch of skin aching for heat. He couldn't tell if he was the one shivering or if Sherlock was. He couldn't tell if it was because of the cold, or because of the undeniably real fact that if John hadn't gotten away from that room, Sherlock could have very well been raped.

John nosed at Sherlock's hair absently, "Go to sleep. I'll keep watch."

"I don't need to sleep," the consulting detective replied, his words heavy with exhaustion.

"I'll be right here." John repeated.

"Obviously," Sherlock whispered back, nuzzling absently at John's neck.

Sherlock was out like a light scant moments later. During the subsequent half-hour, John listened anxiously for any sounds in the distance. He wondered if the thugs knew about this hunting shack, if this might be a ruse. Then he chastised himself, because those idiots were not capable of any sort of proper planning. John thought back to the leader, the boss, the man he'd killed tonight. The second person he'd killed to protect Sherlock Holmes.

John pondered that perhaps, for the first time, he'd killed in cold blood. But seeing that bastard try to rape-

No, John told himself furiously, grip tightening around his flatmate. Mustn't think about that. Think about what we are going to bloody well do next. That's a hell of a lot more important than getting fanciful with ones imagination.

What might have- _but didn't_ \- happen, John firmly reminds himself, wasn't important right now.

Sherlock shifted in John's grasp, his whole body curled around the doctor like a cat. John found the steady puffs of warm air against his bare neck oddly soothing.

This hunting shack smells abominable, John thinks, but at least this idiot of a man is safe.

So, the soldier starts plotting their next course of action.

TBC.


	2. The Touch Which Reveals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry 'bout any and all spelling & grammar mistakes. I don't have a beta, and you can only catch so many errors from reading something aloud. Enjoy!

John has absolutely no idea what time it is. It could still be night or early morning, or even late afternoon. The hunting shack they’d holed themselves up in was sealed and locked tightly shut. No natural light penetrated inside its musty shelter. Sherlock remained shivering in his arms for the better part of an hour before his body finally warmed up to the point that hypothermia was no longer a risk. John was astonished they'd even found this place.

He hadn't been fully aware of how dire their situation was, before. Some of that had to do with the drugs they'd been injected with. The other bit was a mixture of physical exhaustion and mental stress. Their adrenaline-fueled bodies hadn't felt the cold properly. It wasn't until he was warmed up again that John really understood how close that call had nearly become.

Sherlock's proximity was oddly comforting, a tangible reassurance. The genius began to sweat in his sleep, his skin sliding against John's. His face was smoothed free of the usual snobbish expressions, making him appear innocent and careless.

The consulting detective slept very softly, barely making any noise. If not for the chest rising and falling against his, John might be worried. But no, the genius was here, wrapped around him like a clingy child. Sherlock’s nose was nuzzled into the crook of John’s neck as if he’d taken up permanent residence there. He’d not moved an inch on his own. The doctor would shuffle to regain feeling in his bum or limbs every so often but no matter how he adjusted them, Sherlock’s body just went along with his like a limpet.

John spent an indeterminable amount of time listening to Sherlock's huffs of breath before his eyes finally couldn’t stay open any longer. He knew he shouldn’t fall asleep, needed to keep watch, but he was too physically exhausted. He curled his fingers through Sherlock's hair before resting his free hand on his hip. The gun was within arms reach. A power nap, he reasoned with himself, just for a few minutes.

Moments before passing into blissful unconsciousness, he momentarily thought of how grateful he was that he’d at least been able to protect this recklessly wonderful man.

When he awoke, Sherlock was still plastered next to his side in the confined space of the shack. The detective was clearly awake. He’d lit the lamp and was fiddling with the dead Nazi’s wallet. John cleared his throat as he pulled away from the somewhat awkward resting spot on Sherlock’s lap. His neck and shoulder ached fiercely as he rubbed the abused muscles.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” John muttered, sheepishly.

Unreadable grey eyes flickered over to scan his face, Sherlock’s mouth was pursed.

“You needed it. We slept for about five hours. It’s dawn,” he replied.

The doctor yawned, letting the blankets drop around his waist. The white t-shirt he’d stolen rode up and revealed his stomach as he stretched. John didn’t notice Sherlock’s eyes drop to the normally hidden flesh.

“So what’s the plan?” John queried, mid yawn.

“I haven’t one.” Sherlock huffed absently, twining his lean fingers under his chin in his customary gesture.

“What? You? Haven’t got a plan?”

“You know I detest repetition.”

“Er,” John faltered for a moment, “Sorry, it’s just-“ he cut himself off abruptly, bringing his hand to his mouth.

“Just, what?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in clear irritation.

John remained silent until Sherlock made an annoying whine.

“Well, you always seem to have a plan, don't you,” he hedged.

“No,” Sherlock’s tone was condescending. “Not always, apparently.”

“Oh, well. I guess we, what? Start walking until we run into somebody?”

Sherlock made a face, “We’re not likely to get very far.”

John sighed, “Why’s that?”

The slim man gracefully rose to his feet and unlocked the door, pushing it open. Freezing air immediately filled the shack, John involuntarily shivered. His eyes slammed shut from the brightness, his knuckles covering them. The air smelled wonderfully crisp but that was pretty much the only redeeming quality about their entire situation.

“Bloody fuckin' hell,” John spat, glaring out at the falling snow as if it mortally offended him.

“We’ve been missing from the flat for almost a day, and I haven’t had my cell phone in at least half that time. Mycroft will already be looking for me.” Sherlock closed the door tightly again, sending his face into shadows.

“Oh?” John said dubiously. “And how do you think he’s going to find us?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a very unflattering manner as he hauntingly replied, “He knows what case I was working on and who I was tailing. That’s enough information for a clever man.”

John couldn’t help himself, his mouth split across his face in a wide grin, “Did you just compliment Mycroft?”

The disdainful glare Sherlock sent in his direction unintentionally brightened John’s caustic mood.

“So, big brother really is watching,” John mused. “He’ll no doubt swoop in to rescue us eventually. In the mean time, what? We stay here? Go back to the Nazi den?”

Sherlock frowned absently as he returned to the floor and perched on some blankets. The hunting shack was just barely big enough for Sherlock’s lean legs to splay in front of him. The doctor stared curiously at his flatmate.

“I would prefer,” Sherlock began, his voice carefully blank, “we not return to the Nazi’s headquarters.”

John gulped, understanding immediately. The chance that the idiot gang of thugs had stuck around after they’d escaped was miniscule. Even the most brain-dead criminal would know not to return to the scene of the crime so soon afterwards. Therefore, this was sentiment. Sherlock didn’t want to go back because it made him nervous.

The realization sent John spinning in astonishment. Those men had managed to frighten Sherlock Holmes. It made his heart clench and his throat burn with fury. He’d kill that fucker over again if he had to. How dare they threaten this great man?

Instead, also keeping his tone neutral, he informed Sherlock that would be just fine since he didn’t really want to walk around barefoot in the snow anyway. It was a pathetically empty excuse, and both pointedly ignored that.

"So, we'll stay here. What do you reckon we should do while we wait?" John mused, changing the subject.

Sherlock gazed at his bare feet absently, fingers toying with the wallet, "You can go back to sleep if you want."

John quirked an eyebrow at his best friend. John's lips tightened into a mirthful smile as he tested the words aloud, "Is this you trying to be considerate?"

Sherlock scoffed and did not respond. John felt a swell of affection for the strange man in front of him. Should they talk over the case? That's what they would normally do. But what happened down in that place was not something John wanted to discuss. Ever. He sighed because he was well aware of the fact that Sherlock would be bored within the hour and he truthfully was not tired enough to go back to sleep. The few hours he'd already gotten had done him wonders.

"We could play chess?"

Sherlock gave a disbelieving expression, looking as if the doctor just cracked his skull wide open, "Carrying a chess set around?"

"Of course not. We used to play with the board in our heads during long patrols in Afghanistan. It would pass the time. And chess seems like the sort of game you'd enjoy." John shrugged. "Just a suggestion."

Gray eyes stared openly at the small form of the ex-soldier. John knew that look very well. Sherlock was sizing him up, reading what he was thinking from the creases under his eyes or heaven forbid a plethora of other subtle tells. Whatever he found seemed to make the detective warm up to the idea.

"It won't really be that much competition, will it?" Sherlock replied, his tone lacking any bite. He actually seemed… rather pleased with John at the moment.

John played along with the mood.

"You'd be surprised," He shrugged amiably, "I've always liked strategy games. I'd bet our styles will be completely different."

"How so?"

"You'll play mathematically, ruthlessly. I'll play like a solider."

Sherlock hummed an affirmation, and adjusted himself so his body was touching John's, outer thighs pressed together. John shifted the scratchy blanket to cover their legs.

"I'm black."

John blinked, surprised that the genius agreed, "Ok, pawn to E4."

They continued for what felt like an eternity to John. Sherlock won the majority of the time, no surprise. As the hours stretched on, John's stomach began to rumble. It had been well over a day since he'd last eaten. Sherlock heard the involuntary noise, but pointedly ignored it. He always snubbed food, even at the best of times.

"I'm bored of this game," Sherlock announced twenty-two victories later.

"Fine," John replied, resigned to three wins.

"Perhaps another game?"

"Like what?"

Sherlock hummed, twining his fingers under his chin. "I haven't a clue. I did not play trite games as a child. Such a pointless waste of time. I'm sure you know many more games than I do."

"Well, if it's a pointless waste of time we'd better just sit in silence," John frowned and crossed his arms, feeling slightly annoyed at the slight. "Wouldn't want to expose your brain to anything tedious like playing children's games."

Sherlock snorted, unraveling his lean limbs. He stood and motioned to open the door.

"What are you doing?"

"I need to urinate." Sherlock said pointedly.

John sighed and got to his feet, moving to follow his friend.

"What?" Sherlock glared with a sullen pout. "Going to hold it for me?"

"You think I'm going to let you go out there, alone, when Nazi's might be running about?"

The consulting detective sighed, "It's broad daylight."

"Exactly."

It was blindingly bright outside after being cooped up in the dark shack. The snow was still falling, the white powder coating the ground lightly. John shivered when his bare feet hit the freezing soil. He cradled his body in his arms, following Sherlock with his eyes as the man wandered a few meters into the forest. He heard the sound of trouser's being unzipped and quickly glanced away, instead scanning their surroundings. The military taught John to wait on lookouts for long periods of time and have a keen attention to detail. He put those skills to good use. The woods were impenetrable on either side, the sky a dim hazy gray. It was bitterly cold, his breath coming out in thick puffs.

The former soldier might've normally thought the view pretty, however all thoughts of beauty were lost on him due to their dire situation. He idly wondered how much longer it would take Mycroft to find them. Had his men reached the underground warehouse, yet? They hadn't covered the escape door properly, and now that he thought about it they hadn't gotten too far away. Was it truly safe to stick around? John felt his gut churn as he thought about what might happen if the Nazi's found them in their current state. Barely armed, practically naked and killers of their leader. Don't think about what almost happened to Sherlock, he thought to himself sternly.

As he dug mental daggers at a tree in the distance, his body was alert to any conveyable threats. Which of course did not include his best mate.

John started greatly when Sherlock tapped his shoulder. A black eyebrow shot up the detective's forehead, an unspoken question.

"I just wish that bloody brother of yours would find us soon." John muttered, walking away from Sherlock to relieve himself also.

The pair then took turns gulping some of the frigid stream water located nearby. Though the liquid was refreshing, it made John's teeth hurt and body ache.

After one last check around the shack for good measure, they retreated back inside.

Sherlock was violently shivering, John wasn't in any better condition.

The curled onto the ground in the same corner as before, huddling close under the itchy blankets. John felt Sherlock's body vibrate and quickly curled both his palms around slender forearms. Sherlock's hands wrapped around John's back, rubbing comforting circles with his spindly fingers.

John's head came to rest lightly on Sherlock's shoulder. He tried to ignore the empty feeling gnawing at his stomach.

"Another game, then?" Sherlock asked after a few moments passed.

"The only other ones I know off the top of my head are 'I Spy' and 'Truth or Dare'. I spy would be pointless because we'd run out of object in five minutes, and I'm terrified of what playing truth or dare with you would be like."

Sherlock chuckled, amused by that frank assessment. "Since we can't leave this shack perhaps a truth game is best."

John sighed, resigned to the fact that he'd have to entertain Sherlock anyway. He lifted his head since their trembling finally subsided. "Alright. Fine. But each of us gets three passes."

"Passes?"

"Like, if we don't want to answer a question. We can opt out three times."

Sherlock frowned absently before agreeing.

"I'll go first then?" John asked. "Okay, um. What did you want to be when you grew up?"

Sherlock stared at his friend, stunned.

John's nose wrinkled, "What?"

"I agree to tell you the truth about anything, and you ask me what my childhood fantasy for a career was?"

"Well, yeah, people usually start small with these sorts of games. That's kinda how it works."

"But-" Cupid's bow lips pursed in thought.

"Answer the damn question, Sherlock."

The detective continued staring at him like he was a crazy person for another moment before replying, "A pirate."

"A pirate?" John smirked, imagining a much younger Sherlock with a patch across one eye waving a plastic sword at his brother.

Sherlock obviously knew just what he was thinking since he snorted caustically. "My turn. Were you leaning over a patient when you got the bullet wound?"

John should've realized Sherlock would ask wildly inappropriate questions.

"Yes." His tone was clipped. Sherlock appeared to be waiting for more details, but he'd have to ask for them.

"What was your first case, professionally?" John queried, hoping the question would direct Sherlock's attention away from his war-injury.

"A series of child abductions in Brixton. A man was selling orphaned children to sexual slavery rings in China."

"Really?" Questions burst forth from John. "So Lestrade asked you to help? How did he know you?"

Sherlock smiled, amused. "I thought the rule was one question at a time?"

John sighed, "I guess. Your turn."

"Was the patient a fellow soldier?"

The doctor flinched, not sure if he should hate Sherlock a little bit for asking. On one hand, it meant the detective hadn't hacked his files without permission. He was sure that with one text to Mycroft, Sherlock could have access to numerous confidential databases. On the other hand, it hurt to talk about. Hurt immensely.

"No." John stated, eyes clenched shut but voice carefully blank. "It was a child from a local tribe. She-"

His hand rubbed over his mouth unconsciously, heart pounding as the memories played across the back of his eyelids. "She was being forced into a suicide-bomber jacket. My platoon didn't really have permission to be there, but some intel had been received about a pending attack. We showed up just as they were… strapping bombs to this group of kids. When we tried to s-stop-"

John's chin met his knees as he forced the words past his lips, "When we went to detain the leaders of the group, they opened fire. To kill us they attempted to kill everyone around, also. Friend, ally, it didn't matter to them. This little girl, god, she couldn't have been more than fifteen. They shot the side of her neck. I was trying to staunch the bleeding and pull her to safety when… I was shot."

For some reason, John couldn't meet Sherlock's eyes. It wasn't the first person he'd told, so he really couldn't understand why he was so upset. It should get easier with each telling, he supposed. But it never did.

John cleared his throat, "Why did Lestrade first let you in on cases?"

"Because he needed me." Sherlock stated, candidly. "I was only two months out of rehab however he knew that I could piece together the clues he'd never noticed to begin with. He got hell from his superiors, but my record eventually overcame my reputation. Did the child survive?"

"No. Did your brother force you into rehab?"

"Shockingly, no. It was my own choice. If she was shot and killed, how did you hurt your leg?"

John snorted, "Thought you said it was psychosomatic."

"We both know it was, for the most part. But there was original trauma."

"Shrapnel." John conceded, "Albiet shallow and somewhat superficial."

Sherlock hummed, "Makes sense, neurologically speaking."

"What made you decide to go to rehab?"

"Several things. I'd gotten to the point where…" Sherlock uncharacteristically hesitated, "I suppose you could say that I couldn't keep up with the lifestyle I'd chosen. I knew that if I did not get clean, I never would."

John reeled at Sherlock's words. He'd never known the man to not be in complete control of his body and mind. Sure he'd not eat or sleep except when absolutely necessary, but he couldn't really imagine the genius before him compulsively consuming drugs. The addiction must have been hell on this man who so highly prized his self-control and mental acuity.

"Why did you not turn to your parents for assistance once you returned from the military?"

"Mostly because they couldn't stop talking about it. They wanted to know every last detail about what happened and the last thing I wanted to do was talk. How long were you in rehab?"

"Nine months. Why did you go see a therapist, then?"

"You already know that answer. I was required to."

"You were, however it is not unusual for veterans to ignore or distain advice from medical professionals after combat. Coupled with the fact that you are a man whom usually dislikes being deeply scrutinized by strangers."

John did not want to get into that so he answered, "And I'm a doctor. I know doing things that are good for me aren't always pleasant."

"So did the therapy help?" Sherlock inquired.

John tutted, "My turn. Did therapy help you?"

A scoff echoed across the small shack. "Hardly. As my fellow peers in group therapy were severely lacking in brain cells they never understood why I took drugs to begin with. I repeat my earlier question."

"No. I really don't know why you're asking questions you already know the answer to."

Sherlock lifted his head to stare at his friend curiously, "I wouldn't ask if I already knew the answer."

"But- You knew the military mandated me to attend therapy. You knew I was miserable back then. Doesn't take the world's only consulting detective to put two and two together."

"I knew what I perceived you felt. I knew from inferences. With the softer emotions I often find myself miscalculating. Besides, John, you are quite a bit harder to read than ordinary people."

The doctor blinked, feeling a bit stunned and more than a little flattered. "Was that a compliment?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied honestly.

John bit his lip, trying to think back to what he wanted to ask. His train of thought had been thoroughly derailed. "Um-"

Sherlock smiled at his friend, rolling his eyes and companionably bumping his shoulder against John's.

"Well, um, I've always wondered," John hesitated. Unlike Sherlock, he wasn't completely socially inept and knew when an innocent question might become unintentionally hurtful. "What's the deal… with you and Mycroft?"

He felt more than saw Sherlock's body stiffen, the way his hands clutched into a fist and his lungs inhale shakily. "Pass."

"Oh," John nodded, moving swiftly along so as to avoid any tension. "Well, where did you live before Ms. Hudson's, then?"

Sherlock relaxed slightly, "I stayed at my great uncles cabin in Sussex. Why did you decide to join the military after medical school?"

"It was the only thing that made sense at the time. Great uncle in Sussex?"

A huff of laugher escaped his friend, "That wasn't really a question."

"More a suggestion to elaborate," John replied with good humor.

"He was an eccentric old man that I emulated as a child. He kept bees, which I've always found to be a most fascinating study."

John chuckled absently.

Sherlock paused, "What's so amusing?"

John grinned at his friend, "You tending bees. There's a thought."

John remembered the question which had been on the tip of his tongue earlier. "Why could they- the therapists and people in those groups- never understand why you used drugs?"

Sherlock sighed, the noise loud in the quiet of the shack. The tall man turned slightly, meeting John's eyes. Sherlock's gray pierced him, almost as if he was being assessed.

"You really want to know?" Sherlock's voice was soft, almost light but it held a tinge of something John couldn't read.

He nodded, slightly unsure of himself.

Sherlock sighed, tangling his fingers into his black hair. "Alright, but- I'm not positive you'll understand, either."

John gave a cautious smile, and without over-thinking his actions, he reached his hand over hold Sherlock's delicate wrist in his grip.

"Imagine," Sherlock began, voice almost incoherent, "if you will, imagine you're a clever child. Imagine as a clever child, you'd never been able to form normative relationships by societal standards. Imagine that… you couldn't speak your mind, even if you had something important to say. Not only because you'd had a brother who overshadowed you at an early age, but because adults perceived you as creepy and mentally unstable. So, what do you do?"

Sherlock hummed, but the sound was absent of his usual thoughtfulness. The noise was tight, almost ashamed, "You leave. You run away. That's what I did. I ran away, and then I found drugs. For the first time in my life my mind was clear. I was… stunted to the point that I could relate to others. Speak to them on their terms. The unyielding cadence of thoughts was finally absent. Imagine after everything around you had been so damnably noisy for so long finally became… blank. Quiet."

John remained silent as Sherlock steadily began rambling.

"Oh, the quiet! Most don't understand the bliss of empty thoughts. But imagine, John! Imagine not being able to turn your mind off! And then, finally, you get this heady thrum of silence and you suddenly inexplicably feel alright in your own skin!"

Sherlock scoffed, "And yet, I knew that I was slowly yet most assuredly going to kill myself. My vice became too large for honest justifications and I-"

"Sherlock-" John's voice was muffled as he placed his free hand over the detective's mouth. "No."

His friend looked affronted for a moment, "No?"

"You should never have to dumb yourself down." John's voice was steady even if his heart skipping. He could imagine it, clearly and painfully so, and he wished that he could take every insult and every mockery from Sherlock's life and make it better.

"Delete what those assholes thought of you. You're brilliant. Absolutely utterly mind- bogglingly brilliant. And anyone who doesn't see that-" John's fingers clenched against the slender wrist. "Those fuckers, anyone who made you feel that you needed to- quit thinking in order to be normal-"

John growled, "They are sick fucks. You-"

He turned, catching Sherlock's eyes, his nose almost brushing his friends arm, "You are… You don't need drugs to be… You're a bloody marvel, you are."

The words sounded lame to John's own ears. But the effect they had on Sherlock was remarkable. The detective's mouth split wide into a grin, an expression of incandescent happiness that nearly plunged John's breath from his lungs.

The pair hovered close, sharing air between the scant distance between them.

"I knew you'd understand." Sherlock told him, radiating pride and sincere warmth.

John rubbed his thumb across the back of Sherlock's hand, unsure how to respond.

TBC.


	3. The Soothing Touch

The subsequent expanse of time spent within this makeshift shelter felt overly prolonged and facile. The truth game lasted until the pair opted to get up and stretch their cramped limbs. The sky was darkened to a foreboding grey. John searched, locating the sun hugging the horizon. Its faint glow was shadowed behind layers of cloud, heavy with condensation. It would snow again before morning. It was already miserably cold.

Walking several paces, shivers shot down his spine as he quickly relieved himself. 

Despite knowing Sherlock deserved privacy, the corner of his gaze remained locked on the tall detective. John hoped his cautious observance was forgivable. The doctor knew it was nigh impossible to be discrete in Sherlock's presence. 

Even when the man was tired or cranky or high on adrenaline, he prided himself on noting the smallest details. Sherlock knew John was watching, that was a certainty. Nevertheless, John wanted to hide how antsy he felt, and how helpless. He dreaded an inopportune return of those disgusting thugs, so he kept on guard for any signs of movement. It felt like the only way he could protect the foolish genius. 

They took turns swallowing frigid water from the stream. John shamelessly dunked his face into the refreshing liquid. Doing so made his back ache from the sheer force of his trembling, but it also helped clear his head and steady himself mentally.

Snow dusted atop dead vegetation along the forest ground. Most had melted during the long afternoon but it was a tell-tale sign of a chilly forecast.

"Only an hour from dusk," Sherlock's baritone echoed loudly across the quiet woods. Often John would find himself straining with effort to hear anything over the chaos of gunshots or the squeal of tires as they chased crime through an already vocal city. Here that voice was almost foreign in this hush of wilderness. Sherlock walked back into the shack.

“What the h-hell is t-taking Mycroft so-o long to find us?” The doctor complained petulantly, forming words around the clattering of his teeth as he shut the door to block out the elements.

Sherlock dropped gracefully into his previous spot. The question was obviously rhetorical and therefore needed no verbal response. Wordlessly, Sherlock brought one edge of the scratchy blanket around himself. John burrowed next to his side moments later, pressing until there was little space between them. 

John normally would’ve balked to nuzzle into another bloke, especially Sherlock, but right now he was too damn cold.  

Once John settled, Sherlock looped an arm behind the doctor’s waist. His chest cradled John’s back, their limbs tangling as they got comfortable. The embrace felt intimate yet casual, as if they’d always been tactile mates. John tried not to think about the close proximity, how it made his skin tingle. Or that his lungs unconsciously matched Sherlock’s as they began breathing in unison. He’d never been the sort who was fond of needless touching. Such behavior was generally outside of his purview except during coitus. This was an emergency though.

They might potentially get very sick if they didn’t conserve heat, his doctorly side rationalized. He forced himself to write off the way he melted against his friend, boneless and familiar. These were extenuating circumstances, he reminded himself,  Sherlock’s fingers tapping on his ribcage in an absent-minded rhythm. 

John was too exhausted. That had to be the reason his skin felt hypersensitive where Sherlock's fingers touched, warmth unfurling in the pit of his stomach.

This dark-haired genius never really abided to societal standards, did he, John mused. Concepts like allowing people personal space were probably tossed into the same pit as data on the solar system. If John bothered to mention that blatant disregard of behavior, he was certain he would hear some defensive tangent about the flagrancy of gratuitous sentiment. And the very last thing he needed at this moment was a tetchy Sherlock Holmes.

They remained companionably silent long enough that John wasn’t entirely sure if the detective had fallen asleep. He was breathing slow and even against the short hairs at the base of his neck, free hand lax and unassuming on John’s hip. John cranked his head askew to find Sherlock’s expressive eyes open but preoccupied. It was the look he got when he was sorting through his mind palace, cupid's bow mouth pursed in thought. John wondered if Sherlock knew how vulnerable he appeared when he got like that. 

The former solider watched for a few moments. He turned back, intending to return to his thoughts when he felt Sherlock's body jolt involuntary. It was so slight that if John hadn't been glued against Sherlock’s front, he might not have even noticed. John felt goose bumps prickle, bells of alarm chiming in his head. 

He went from lethargic to alert in mere seconds. Despite the fact that Sherlock chose to ignore his body most of the time, the events from the last case were clearly wearing him down. Coupled with the undeniable facts that they’d been stranded in this shanty without food or proper heat, and that it was likely to snow again… John wondered just how easily they'd manage to get through this night unscathed. 

"Sherlock?" John's hand swept across Sherlock's forehead, obscuring the detective's vision. 

Flinching unintentionally, Sherlock’s head snapped back so quickly it banged against the wall. He violently knocked the offending hand away. 

John's face morphed into a clear expression of concern. Sherlock blinked rapidly, attempting to to focus. It proved momentarily futile. Returning from his mind palace without prior warning was inevitably jarring, it threw him off his equilibrium. Sherlock rubbed into his hair, soothing the smarting ache.

He barely heard the tentative, "Are you alright?" 

"Fine," Sherlock snarled as way of response.

John rolled his eyes caustically at the tone, a sharp flair of annoyance chipping away at his notoriously short temper. What an insufferable git. John deftly rotated hips and legs across Sherlock's lap so the angle gave him a better view. 

Their chests bumped as his palm cupped Sherlock's forehead a second time, feeling for any signs of fever. His hand was roughly swatted away. 

Sherlock tartly repeated with more agitation, "I'm fine, John."

"I'm just trying to check if-"

Sherlock interrupted, "I'm not ill, I was simply-"

"In your mind palace? Yeah, I know," John scowled. "But that doesn't change the fact that you haven't eaten in four days, or that you've barely slept, or that not even twenty hours ago we were drugged and very nearly-“

“Enough!” Sherlock snapped viciously. He forcefully shoved John off his lap. The blanket dropped as the detective added additional distance between them, curling his arms around himself. Sherlock’s body was defensive and thrumming with the sudden rush of adrenaline. 

Sherlock sincerely did not want John to continue that rant, or bring up. . . It was humiliating enough that he’d missed the potential sexual assault connection to the Nazi group. If he’d known he would’ve created an alternative plan. Sherlock felt slightly queasy remembering it. John seeing him in that tenuous position, forced on his knees with a dirty thug raping his mouth. 

John unfailingly understood the pinched expression on Sherlock’s face, as he always did. 

He retreated with hands raised in mock surrender, looking slightly ridiculous. The doctor settled himself on the other side of the shanty, chewing his lower lip and pondering what to say next.

"I do not require you to hover over me like a mother-hen.” Sherlock remarked, feigning certainty that he did not actually possess. “I’m a bit tired, that is all." 

John nodded, still feeling miffed. It was as if the camaraderie they’d found only an hour before playing that silly truth game had vanished entirely. His concern for Sherlock’s health and safety warred with his irritation at the man’s total lack of self preservation. He knew that prodding Sherlock would get him nowhere, and it was obvious by his body language that he wanted John away from his person at the moment. The genius could go hot or cold so fast it made John’s head spin. Sherlock's normally expressive eyes flashed with an unreadable expression, he was clearly waiting for a response. 

"Fine." John quipped, trying to appear reasonable. "We should conserve the lamp's fuel anyway. Get some rest. I'll keep watch." 

John reached down to grab the lantern, moving it onto the small bench attached to the wall. John quickly covered his legs with the remaining scraps of blanket before plunging them both into inky darkness. He heard Sherlock huff, followed by the sound of him readjusting the blankets. It was freezing in the small shack. The blanket was hardly large enough to cover both even when they were smushed together. 

John tucked into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself as he tried to ignore the ache tormenting his bad shoulder and the pangs of hunger gnawing inside his stomach. He absently listened for noises in the distance, but only heard his own faint puffs of air. 

To his astonishment, it was Sherlock who broke the terse silence a minute later. If John didn't know any better the tone was almost apologetic. 

"It's difficult for me to reorient myself spatially when I'm ejected from my mind palace without warning. I tend to lash out.”  

John's eyebrows furrowed as he parsed through Sherlock's words, “It's hard for you to return to reality too fast, when you’re lost in thought like that?”

“Indeed.”

John relented, his anger ebbing away from the confession, "Okay. Good to know, I guess. Thanks for telling me." 

They lapsed back into silence a second time, John closing his eyes as he rested his head against the side of the wall. It was distinctly less comfortable than having Sherlock as his own personal body heater. He could make due, he hadn't earned the rank of Captain by acting like a pansy. 

"John," Sherlock whined, "I'm cold. Why did you move over there?" 

The doctor knew when to pick his battles, so he let this one go. He eagerly shuffled to Sherlock's side. It was clumsy to adjust their limbs in the pitch-black without the blanket getting twisted, but soon slim arms wrapped around him. A sharp nose bumped the top of his head, breath tickling his hair.

John's shoulder throbbed but he valiantly ignored the pain. Sherlock noticed, probably from the way he tensed up, because slender fingers pressed across the knotted muscle. A deft thumb rubbed sharply on his bad shoulder, John's eyes fell shut from the mix of pleasure and pain. 

He chuckled quietly.

"What?" Sherlock murmured.

"Just thinking about if Mycroft came storming in at this very moment with you and me huddled in a corner sharing a blanket. Things might get a bit not good."

Sherlock hummed absently, not really sure he understood what John was getting at. Mycroft would deduce that they were chastely sharing body heat, so that wasn't it. His phrasing suggested it was improper, smilier to their encounter with Moriarty at the pool. 

"Oh! You mean because we’re barely clothed?" 

John frowned, "Yes, that. And how you're, er, massaging my shoulder. Might get the wrong impression." 

Sherlock snorted, not really caring in the least. Mycroft could think whatever he wanted. His older brother would never be capable of removing John from his life, and knew better than to attempt it. Even Mycroft was aware how important John was to not just his work, but his intrinsic well-being. This loyal and brave doctor was an vital asset as well as the only true friend he'd ever had. He kept a watch over Sherlock (forcibly on occasion), fed him (forcibly on occasion), made sure he slept (forcibly on occasion), and was often nearly murdered trying to protect him. (Beautiful in those moments). If John hadn't accompanied him on their current case, the outcome of the situation would have been drastically different. 

Sherlock didn't realize he'd gone quiet until John cleared his throat. John's arms clenched, the detective knew he was carefully parsing out his words. 

"We-" John hesitated for a moment, whispering, "We don't have to talk about what happened… down there. But," 

Sherlock stiffened, his fingers pausing over the curve of John's neck. 

The words sounded awkward on the tip of his tongue. "I'm just glad that you're- um, alright." 

He hesitated for a moment, bringing his gun-calloused hand to grasp Sherlock's, squeezing once before releasing him. Sherlock wordlessly allowed this, clutching his friend closer until John relaxed into the warmth radiating from the lean body. 

John stubbornly did not allow himself to sleep, even if his eyelids burned with the effort to keep them open. His vision had adjusted to the darkness of the shanty, but he couldn’t make out much. Sherlock was lost in thought yet wide awake. It wasn't a lie, what he'd said before. He was extraordinarily tired, however turning his brain off was never an easily accessible option. Not when he didn't have drugs in his system, numbing him.

"You never should need to dumb yourself down." John's words from earlier replayed in a loop. "You're brilliant. Absolutely utterly mind-bogglingly brilliant." 

Their shelter became unbearably cold after only an hour. Sherlock brought his skin into as much contact with him as he could, but it didn’t stop John's teeth from chattering. The former soldier said nothing as Sherlock began smoothing his hands in comforting circles on his back, creating friction for heat. John shifted, his bum resting on Sherlock’s thighs with both his arms wrapped around his slim waist. John buried his nose into the crook of a milky neck, breathing deeply. 

Not even a week ago, this closeness would have been unfathomable. John thought about the night before, with limbs tangled, how it hadn’t felt this intimate. Now, their mouths were too close, their breath mingling too easily. This embrace was too comfortable, too wonderful, though by all rights it should be the exact opposite. Clinging on his best mate to avoid freezing to death shouldn’t soothe John. But it did. His breathing evened out as he fought to remain awake.

“We shouldn’t sleep,” Sherlock said, his voice gruff and low as his fingers memorized John's back. 

“No, we shouldn’t.” 

“Truth game, then?”

“Sure, why not.” John agreed, lips nearly brushing protruding clavicle bones. His hot breath made Sherlock shiver. 

"I believe it was your turn." Sherlock murmured. 

So, the pair took turns asking more questions. They kept the topics mundane and safe, which relieved John because he wasn’t sure he wanted to touch on anything serious again. Not when he was more exhausted than ever and might accidentally reveal something he hadn’t meant to. So they held one another and talked, weaving stories through open-ended questions. John pointedly ignored Sherlock's hands roaming around his torso, and Sherlock equally ignored John's lips barely brushing over his neck and shoulder. 

An indeterminable time later, as Sherlock was explaining why he’d chosen to get his masters degree in chemistry, John suddenly slanted his left hand over Sherlock's mouth with no explanation. It hadn't been his imagination that he'd heard something. 

Both listened intently before they heard the echo of people talking. None of the voices were recognizable, making Sherlock’s stomach drop. Mycroft’s team would never make such a ruckus. John smoothly crouched up over his friend on the balls of his feet. The gun was in his hand, safety off. 

John, careful of making noise, unlocked the door and peaked out. The voices drifted nearby until he saw beams from flashlights dancing across trees. 

“Round the back,” John whispered, crawling out close to the ground. 

Sherlock nodded and after an indecisive pause he quickly folded the blanket before shutting the door firmly behind him. The shanty would appear untouched. 

“They 'ave to be 'ere somewheres,” A male voice, mid-thirties, slightly intoxicated. “There ought to be a huntin’ shack, I think it’s over here.” 

The glare of light hitting the wooden structure had John’s heart leaping into his throat. He slowly tugged Sherlock’s wrist and the pair backed up farther, ducking behind trees. Sherlock’s bare feet felt raw as he kneeled down on the dirt. He make sure to keep out of sight as the group meandered closer. 

Three men, they were unmistakably skinheads. Angry curses followed the loud ricochet of the door being wrenched open. 

“Fuck! If we don’t find those two, the boss’ll have our heads!” One cried, voice high with panic. 

The word boss made Sherlock bite his lip. Wasn’t the man John shot the leader? He heard John gulp beside him and their eyes met for a moment.

“No shite!” Another snarled, flashing the light around the woods. “We should have started lookin’ for them while it was daylight, you tosser!”

“I told you-“

“You bloody well did not!” 

“Yeah, I fuckin' did! That damn Holmes killed Tray’s, and now Flanagan is gonna to kill us for not findin' him! I told you they probably escaped to the woods-“

“That other bloke is a soldier!” The first man bellowed. “It’s barely above freezing right now, it makes way more sense that they’d stay and hide in the base to wait for help!”

“Well, they didn’t!” The remaining man groaned. “And if they had all day to walk, who knows how far they would’ve gotten.”

The door to the shanty swung shut with a crack. The group of thugs stood in a circle, shouting at one another in a panic. 

John took a deep breath as they continued fighting, aiming his gun calmly at the closest. He heard Sherlock shift beside him, and did not hesitate. With three practiced shots the men were down. John aimed for their shoulder’s, it would immobilize them but hopefully not kill them. 

Knowing exactly what to expect, he pushed Sherlock’s head down, both hugging dirt as a round of bullets flew above them. The sound of gunfire rang harshly on the soft landscape.

“You fuckers!” One cried, his voice shuttered in pain, “Come out and fight us!”

Sherlock moved to do just that but John clutched his arm firmly. He shook his head in negation, keeping low to the ground. A second later another round echoed. 

John could tell that two of the thugs had immediately passed out. Instinct told him that the remaining bloke would be inconceivably terrified. 

His suspicions were confirmed moments later. 

“Please! Help me!” 

They waited for another agonized minute, John listening for the tell-tale noise of an empty gun chamber clicking. As soon as he heard the useless click-click-click, he was up and looming over the bleeding Nazi, his gun steadily trained between his eyes.

“Y-you fuckers," the unnamed man whimpered. "I hope you burn in hell-”

“Sorry mate, that’s your lot.” John smiled humorlessly, slamming his foot on the open wound. A howl emitted, the cry of a helpless animal. Silence reigned once more. John emitted a shallow breath, checking to to make certain the unconscious pricks posed no threat before turning to Sherlock.

The detective was impressed. 

“Grab their jackets and weapons,” John ordered.

Sherlock wrenched a heavy jacket away from the closest unconscious body. Scanning their shoes, he pulled off a pair of boots and fastened them to his own feet. Two guns were confiscated next, along with a knife and a cell phone. The device was on but there was no reception. 

John grunted, catching Sherlock’s attention. The doctor dragged the first thug into the shanty, propping him against the wall. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Even if they deserve it,” John muttered, “I’m not going to leave them outside, half-naked, to bleed to death in the cold.”

“They wouldn’t hesitate to give you that fate.” 

“I know, I know. But I’m not them.” 

Sherlock assisted John until the three bulky guys were stuffed into the shack. They would probably have permanent injuries, but they were still alive. John draped the blanket over them before shutting the door. 

John picked up a flashlight. 

“This coat smells repugnant.” Sherlock croaked, body still taunt with nerves. 

“Beggars can’t be choosers. That mobile work?”

“No reception.”

“Damn,” John scanned around, he couldn’t see anything in the distance. 

“It’s nearly midnight.” Sherlock supplied. 

“We should get moving. Turn that flashlight off. Those gunshots would’ve been heard kilometers away."

The sky was clear, the moon a cheshire grin above their heads. Sherlock's cheekbones looked exceptionally impossible in the dim light. John reached over and twined his fingers with Sherlocks, anchoring him as they walked. The detective strode closer, his hand steadily returning the pressure. 

They chose a random direction, navigating their way over tree branches, the landscape quiet around them. 

Sherlock wasn't sure he'd ever been more grateful to have John by his side. 

TBC. 


End file.
